


sunset boulevard (when i wake up)

by Mikey_The_Unicorn



Series: the great escape [1]
Category: Warcraft (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Pain, basically hurt without comfort ((((:, but there's pain, lots of pain, vague as all hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 12:43:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7439848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikey_The_Unicorn/pseuds/Mikey_The_Unicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had met, 17, young and free, on the shores of the Strip when he was trying to make money on tour and he was running from home.</p><p>[[L. l l l l lo- don’t say it. Don’t make him believe that he’s in lo-]]</p>
            </blockquote>





	sunset boulevard (when i wake up)

**Author's Note:**

> a revamped piece of mine from last year, because i just gotta torture my favourite pairing with PAIN and ANGST you have been warned
> 
> [shhh i know my writing style is strange just roll with it]

It’s the futility of it all – the romance, the desire, the Drug with a capital D that was the enticement, that left him at 2 am with bleeding fingertips and misspelt words, heavy on the trip of a drunken tongue, numb with defeated harmonies and mistaken melodies. All he could do was sing forgotten words on top of someone else’s, stumbling to find some way out of a labyrinth of damnation, with a key that fit the lock but did not turn.

Sober hands shook and heightened ones did nothing but bleed bleed and bleed, nervous tics as they tried to stab through the perfected keyhole with perfect keys that didn’t change key quite the way that one would want octaves to swan dive, which led him to standing outside bars with bars on his heart and his eyes. Bars on his heart and his eyes for his own good that let the world filter in with wavelengths of polarised lighting that juxtaposed his nails against his lungs because he loved the taste of first kiss smoke, and the bitter unreality that came with sitting against walls in weather that was too cold, too cold too cold too cold but that did not matter.

They had met, 17, young and free, on the shores of the Strip when he was trying to make money on tour and he was running from home, eyes brightened with teeth and nails banded in gold [that cut with the cold, cold certainty of silver], a rich boy that was stuck in a clouded town and a clouded mind, banded with his loose curls and brown eyes that spoke of violence on cheeks and fading bruises. He tasted of first kiss smoke and a soundless explosion of sound, and ran alongside him with animalistic grace of a tiger going in for the kill [fastening teeth upon his throat].

Their fingers slotted together [the wrong way, that is] and it blinded them and their kaleidoscope eyes to the whole wide, wide world, and he knew this because he had held his face, gentle, quiet, turning this way and that, sunlight catching upon his eyes of blue, liquid diamond that the boy had fallen in love with, the sheer impossibility of it [because diamonds don’t have a liquid stage. _tempore_ ].

That night he had made him feel like a man, with stuttered words and hips and grasping hands on sheets [bands, bands bands of gold bands in his head of bars of blues in his eyes] and choked out the hard _K_ of his name [ _ketamine kocaine k k k k k_ ] as his eyes rolled back into his head and felt like he could rule the world, his back clawed and neck bruised like the eyes of the man beneath him, breath coming hard and heavy as his name danced on his tongue and he dipped to capture it [because he couldn’t bear to hear it don’t say it don’t say it let him catch it like a butterfly with dew on its wings like the dew on your lashes, _K_ ].

[Gentle and soft, unlike the hard _K_ of addiction. _L. l l l l lo- don’t say it. Don’t make him believe that he’s in lo-_ ]

He would go home, and skid over black velvet dice that dripped from fingers painted red velvet from split knuckles, and brown eyes that spoke of the blues. Red velvet fingers that dropped beat poetry from hickory and muted strings, in hot air that was scented with something from many many many years ago, something dead but incessantly alive that reminded him every summer of the first that was spent in bed with sand and the neighbourhood sounds caught in dream catchers and blue lighters, and cups of cups of broken velvet dice mixed with cigarettes and drunken down in a toxic mix that reminded of illicit icing he sought underground, beckoning fingers and the bitter drip down the back of his throat.

Love wasn’t the screaming of [heart] strings that couldn’t form a chord that played right, or the jargon of fractured words that could fall like glass drops from cracked lips, but the way that he would dance for him with a life broken back [the reality he carried upon his shoulders of realisation and cynicism] in their square metre of kitchen with cigarettes of red velvet dipped into his eyes, or keep the bars over his heart to slot with his so that wavelengths of polarised light would dilate those pupils to their normal sizing. He would stand up with shaking fingers and walk back home, because he had been promised beauty in time [in _tempore_ ] and his liquid diamond eyes knew that everything would be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(シ)_/¯ i'm dead inside


End file.
